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Story:Rain's Ascent/Chapter 1
"To live in reality is not the only way to live." The shadow halts, hovering steadily over a single point in the rock, blessedly flat compared to the ragged earth around it. A figure stirs among a ragged sagebrush - a boy just as sparse, camel-colored skin and dusty coat blending in with the soil. Noa Lentic has lived in this land all his life - and so he has become one with it. Wings arc towards the sun, pausing for a brief moment in time, enough for the boy to pull the string taut with his left hand and aim. The bolt breaks into the sky, but the wings have already turned towards that mass of clouds in the far northeast. The bolt strikes true, but the bird doesn't fall the way Noa wants it to – its shadow is drifting away from the flat spot he ambitiously picked out moments before. Another climb! Another reward for poor reflexes. Noa detaches the crossbow from his wrist and places it into its case on his back, beginning the descent to the harrier’s corpse before its friends show up to scavenge. Sliding down the slopes might have been difficult for a lowlander, but a mountain child with hardy, Mt. Kailas-crafted sandals handles it deftly. As Noa edges down the first slope and catches a view of the downed harrier, a tiny, slate-colored owl pops up above it, holding the bloodied bolt in her claws and hooting. “Nice work, partner.” She brings the bolt over to Noa, who cleans it before moving over to the crumpled mass of black feathers that is the Stonebeak Harrier. It’s more feathers than meat, and feeds mostly off of dead things, but there are dozens of them around the peaks. You have to be tough to survive up in the mountains. I am not tough. I am blessed. They begin the trek homeward, Noa scrambling over peaks and crevasses and Sage flitting lightly above. He wishes they could trade places. There’s a small pool ahead, and he pauses to wash his face, greeted and dismissed by his reflection. It is scarred and darkened from the constant winds and sun of Ilocos, dust already resettling in short, spiked brown hair. Sage decides that the remainder of the journey back home is best seen perched on my shoulder. They reach the steep inclination leading up to the arch that marks the entrance to their abode. Noa's father and Cleric Stern have often considered etching steps into them, but they don’t want the publicity it might bring. He scales the slope somewhat easily, partially due to habit, partially due to the new sandals, notching his feet into small niches in the rock. Sage pops up as Noa reach the earthen arch, the lone entrance into their small camp. The maple tree, a lone pioneer amidst a sea of dust and shrubs. The north cliff, a sheer dropoff overlooking the Sea of Tranquility, with the other three sides sheltered by stone. The three lean-tos crafted of harrier feathers and a few precious sticks. The well, a ring of stone with an elaborate pulley system that he still can’t honestly describe. Home. We are happy here, lifted up to the high places of the earth, so that our thoughts may touch heaven. ---- As Noa approaches the well, which is the closest thing to the entrance, the pulleys begin to rattle and turn, and up comes a man with exceptionally dark hair considering his age. He clings to the rope with one hand and turns a crank with the other, raising himself and the bucket of water he is perched upon to the surface. Cleric Stern gives Noa one of his iconic eye smiles. It doesn’t extend to his mouth, but it doesn’t need to. “From the depths, I have cried out, and for my supplication have received… some brackish water.” “The Book of Stern?” Noa asks. Of course not; there are only 34 books in the Palest, and it has been decreed that all others are apocryphal. The smile still plays around the cleric's eyes. “I like the original verse better.” He detaches the bucket of water, hands it to Noa, then rolls up the sleeves of his roughspun tunic and returns to the well. “The well requires more attention. Please attend to your father.” Stern slips down the rope as fluidly as water. A few drops of rain fall from the sky as Noa make my way towards the north side of the camp. Noa's dad is sitting on his favorite boulder, thinning gray hair tousling in the breeze as he looks at the sky over the Sea of Tranquility, which is quickly darkening. Germain Lentic seems at peace for the moment, and doesn’t notice his son until Noa kneels down right beside him. “Hi, dad. It’s Noa.” Germain turns his head slowly and looks at Noa for a few glassy seconds before breaking into halting, sluggish speech. “Noa. Hi. It’s raining again. Always raining.” It is always raining in those glassy haunted eyes. We are all beholding the glory of God with an open face; we are all transformed into the same image. “Don’t be angry at the rain, dad. It doesn’t know how to fall upwards. Here, I got a harrier for tonight. I shot it with your bow!” Noa holds the crossbow up so his father doesn’t have to strain too much to look at it. “My bow,” he says, as if it is just a speck of dust in his son's hand. “Yes, your crossbow,” Noa replies. Germain doesn’t say anything else, looking intently at the crossbow with those clear gray eyes, one of many traits he has passed to his child. “Here, let’s get you under the roof.” Noa takes his hand gently and leads him to his hang-to. Out of the rain, Germain's attitude appears to brighten, and he moves over to the ramshackle desk with a single object on it: a small, worn, round picture frame. In it is a watercolor of two figures in heavy, hooded cloaks standing on a misty cliff, their backs to the viewer. Noa has seen it a thousand times, and every time he has a renewed appreciation for the gentle feeling the image gives him. Pointing to it, he asks his dad, smiling, already knowing the response, “That’s you, right?” He concentrates on it for a few seconds, eyes not quite focused. Noa lets him escape into it, wherever it brings him, because it usually brings him a few precious moments of clarity. He finally nods. “Yes.” Noa has given up asking who the other figure is. “Are you going to roast the harrier now?” Well, hunger is always a good sign, I think... “Sure! Did you want to come with me to the fire pit?” “…No, no thank you.” Germain points to Sage perched on Noa's shoulder. She has been quiet the entire time, as she usually is whenever Germain Lentic is nearby. Sage is the most compassionate bird Noa has ever met, though that isn’t hard when everything else with wings is a harrier. “What’s this? An owl? What’s her name?” Sage has been with Noa for two years, tagging along ever since he gained the confidence to start hunting for their three-person camp. Germain never remembers her name, which Noa gave her in honor of the eponymous brush they are so fond of. “Sage, dad.” “Mm. Nice name.” He frowns at nothing at particular, and Noa let him go back to his boulder alongside the cliff lip, hearing him mumble, “My bow…” ---- The rest of the daylight hours go by without incident, as the usual mass of clouds from Mindanao begin their journey towards the small camp. Wisps of smoke dissolve into raindrops as the harrier burns slightly. Noa is more occupied with shielding the fire pit from the rain, and Cleric Stern returns with a few more pots of water in which he has decided to “flavor” with some... interesting leaves. “Germain, how do you feel about Noa’s cooking today? It is improving, yes?” asks Cleric Stern as we sit on the dirt around the pit. He gets a few coughs and a moment of silence in return. “Harrier is okay. Tea is worse.” The addled man pushes his pot away, and Noa grins in agreement. He is the picture of patience. “I must atone for this. Perhaps drinking the rest will be fitting penance,” says the cleric with mock contrition. Sage, pecking on the ground at a harrier bone, gives him a territorial glance. Germain chuckles roughly. “You know, one day, I’m going to be the kid, and you’ll be running this entire place.” A quiet amusement dances in Noa's eyes. “Haha, not yet, I don’t think.” Germain hasn’t gone hunting in two years, ever since the cough came on and his mental condition deteriorated further. Noa convinced him to stay back at camp when he got lost and wandered nearly halfway to the Mindanoan border. I was just 14 back then... but we've come far. I’m lucky Cleric Stern is around to keep an eye on the camp. The sable-haired man leans quietly over the fire. Although the cleric is often silent and pondering, the camp, and especially its life-giving well, is a testament to his kindliness. The rain beats ever harder, melding with the sea on the horizon in a meeting of quiescent gray. "The cave is sounding quite good right now," says Cleric Stern. He does not move. The roughly hewn wooden bowl housing his drumstick has turned into a soup. Most hermits prefer solitary caves, but Stern visits the Lentics frequently, knowing their condition. "Do you believe?" asks the elder Lentic suddenly, inquisitively. The dying fire casts a harsh light upon the question, sprung from the lips of a man who once knew nearly all of the Palest, immaculate cover to immaculate cover. "I do," answers Stern placidly. Noa is less immediate, giving an uncertain grin. "Do I believe what, dad? Of course I believe in - " "But do you...?" the grey-haired man interrupts. Sage ruffles her wings uncomfortably and dislodges from her perch on Noa's shoulder, flitting off into the mist. Disconcerted, the teenager waits futilely for the sentence to finish, finally glancing at Stern in hesitation. He receives only a nod and an expectant look. "I.... yes, dad. I've been adherent today." He hopes the soft, affirmative answer will placate his father, but it is not received well. "Wrong..." Germain's face is inexpressive, and he lurches slowly off the sitting stone to curl up in a lean-to, out of the rain. Noa doesn't know whether to take a deeper meaning from his father's words or dismiss them as a random, anxious outburst. Neither option is encouraging. Knowing that his father will not want to be bothered, and taking a cue from Stern's impassivity, Noa rubs his eyes and focuses on evening vespers. Maybe I missed something... maybe that is why dad is upset... The last of the smoldering embers flickers out of existence, and no further words grace the firepit. No words are needed, however, not when the rain streams prayers to the sky. Noa closes his eyes and lifts his head upwards, to that secret ladder, wreathed as a waterfall. Each drop on his face is a minuscule bead of life, of hope. Consolatory, they wash away the somber exchange, and Noa is able to feel, with all of his heart: I believe in us... ---- Cleric Stern, offering sparse parting words, leaves to visit a few other hermits and ensure they are safely weathering the storm, which is steadily increasing in ferocity. Noa remains at the periphery of the camp, alone, as Sage has not returned. The rocky outcrop he has chosen to nest under is one of his favorites, sculpted in a swirl of granite and pumice. Noa's spindly fingers hold a boiled harrier skin, shining sable in the rain and primed for plucking. The task still makes him feel queasy, even after all these years... perhaps because it is a bird... If it had to be done, then Noa would do it. Pluck. He looks into the sky, wishing he would see a small ball of white feathers, returning home. I will recite the Seventh Antiphon. The work will be... calming. Pluck. Pluck. Pluck. The Seventh Antiphon has not been recited among the clergy of Luzon for years. One may be surrounded by the love of God, but only by faith can be immersed in it Pluck. Everyone is fine... Sage will be fine. One may be enervated by the culmination of the spirit, but only by faith can find in it euphoria Pluck. His father is fine. He knows to take refuge in a storm. He knows these things... One may abase themselves into dust, but only by faith magnifies the name of God in doing so Pluck. ...but he is forgetting... but it will be okay. Everything will be okay. One may -'' BOOM. A peal of thunder tears through the twilight, as the sun is swallowed by the looming peak and white winds of Mt. Kailas. More clouds take its place, hungrily obscuring even the cathedral on Mt. Kailas’ peak. The loss of the landmark sends an irrational chill down Noa's spine just as another cacophony screams overhead, causing him to drop the feathers in shock and stand bolt upright, suddenly cold. He dashes out from the stone embrace of his refuge, towards the center of the camp, and nearly runs into Cleric Stern, who has entered from the archway. “A regiment of soldiers is about, seeking safety from the storm. Attend to your father and calm him, lest he betray our sanctuary.” he whispers. “Soldiers? From where?” Noa asks. ''Why here? Cleric Stern puts a finger to his lips in reply. Above the sound of pelting rain, Noa can just make out the foreboding, eerily measured marching of an approaching army. Then the wind picks up, drowning the sound away in a horizontal torrent of water. “I will conceal the arch! Take shelter!” shouts Cleric Stern; it is the loudest Noa has ever heard him speak. As the cleric struggles to drape a heavy curtain of feathers over the arch, Noa bolts away. His own two feet are lost in the rain as he struggles to return to the coastal edge of camp. Xen, please preserve us... are we being punished for something? Calm... The remaining verses of the Seventh Antiphon are lost, as Noa focuses only on locating his father. Forcing his hands to stop shaking, he grabs the crossbow and its case from the smaller lean-to, then checks the other. It is empty. The feather roof is leaking like a sieve, splashing water on Noa's face in a cruel portent of dread. The fire pit, coals hissing demonically in the sizzling rain – empty. The well, raindrops echoing from the depths - empty. The maple tree, helicopter seeds tearing off branches in panicked flight – empty. One place left. The Sea of Tranquility is screaming. Germain's favorite boulder is vacant, but on the edge of the cliff stands a figure shadowed by the rain, facing towards the raging waters. “Dad! NO! What are you doing?!” He takes one step further. “I’m here!!” Noa breaks into a slipping dash as the figure limps in horrible torpor, ever forward. “I promise!” He is at the border between earth and a fatal stretch of sky, but Noa is so close – “I’ll do better, I'll be wrong all the time, if that's what you want-” The brown-haired boy reaches out to grab his father's shoulder, but the entire silhouette vanishes like smoke. Noa's movement carries him further with the northward wind off the cliff edge, scrambling in shock to hold anything, anything, unable to clutch even his own voice. He clings for one moment on the precipice of everything he has ever known. Once more a carillion of thunder tolls, and Noa is falling in the rain – with the rain. The boy stares upward blankly, blacking out, as a hooded figure descends towards him, one hand outstretched, as the surge of water converges upon them. Main Next: Chapter 2